


The Ethereal Boy

by acridaesthete



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: And good vocabulary, I just really like space, Other, and metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:40:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5436989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acridaesthete/pseuds/acridaesthete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>e·the·re·al<br/>/əˈTHirēəl/<br/><br/><i>adjective</i><br/><br/>extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ethereal Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This really has no central plot or theme, just kind of a drabble I wrote because I want Luke Skywalker to be okay. I listened to March to the Sea and Lovely by Twenty One Pilots, in case you wanted to give those a listen.

He is an ethereal boy. A kid who’s walked a thousand skies, solar systems at his fingertips and galaxies reflected in his eyes. Unfathomable wisdom lies behind his forehead and a snarky comment on his tongue. He is more powerful than he lets on, more mature than someone his age should ever need to be. Silk fingers wind around his weapon like a curse, but he won’t use it unless provoked.  
  
Skin like milk has been viciously painted with green and brown and violet. A son with something to prove, a brother who wishes he had more to give. He has every reason to be angry, scream, cry, or fight. Tainted memories press on his temples without remorse but a small grin hints at the corner of his lips because he can’t help but be thankful for all he’s seen. He’ll smile between punches, forgive you if you strike him down.  
  
He tries his best but he’s not perfect, far from it. He's just a mop of dirty blonde hair resting above tired eyes that have seen the stars and the damage they cause. They shine bright enough to burn or blind.  
  
He is only a child. He misses home. He misses the sand gliding through the air in ribbons. He misses the sting of salty sweat on dry, cracked skin. He misses the way the light pooled at the edges of his view, the very bottom of the plain in front of him swept with a binary sunset of gold and lavender.  
  
He wishes he could land for once, always floating slightly above the realm of reality. He wishes for something solid, concrete, to wrap his mind and arms around. He yearns so desperately for gentle touches, for all he's known is pain.  
  
He's been tossed away broken without a second glance and there's no one left around him that can put him back together. He must do it himself. He shouldn't have to. It's not fair, nothing ever has been. He deserves more, a better life than the one he's been given.  
  
He deserves to know real beauty. He deserves to be given love, instead of being bled dry of it. He deserves to see the stars the way they're meant to be seen, out of the corner of your eye while you're too busy admiring the one holding your hand. He deserves to be fed, nurtured, caressed, and cared for. He deserves light in his eyes. He deserves the will to live. All of these things have been wrongfully taken from him.  
  
He is brave, and strong, and sad. He is alone, and beautiful, and a wreck. He deserves better, and isn't going to be given it any time soon. He has a million things still left to do, people still left to meet, and a worn out smile on his face. He is but a poor ethereal boy.


End file.
